Summer Movie
by Petronia
Summary: K and Ryuuichi meet under unusual circumstances (think summer action blockbuster).


**Summer Movie**

They met under unusual circumstances. It was the summer of the "World's End II" shoot; Judy was due on location near Sukhothai, which could have been a blast for K as well, had he not been _persona non gratis_ with the Thai authorities ever since the one piddling organised-crime bust off Phuket. The production didn't want trouble from either of them. For one, it was by no means common knowledge among the movie-going populace that Judy Winchester had her stage name by marriage. Staring down the barrel of a semi-automatic could put the fear of God into the tabloid media, right off and no mistake.

They talked around the Phuket incident. The part involving amphibious rockets was rather embarrassing.

"They can't stop me," he said. "I'd like to see them try."

"Now, Crawd," she said firmly, "be good," and kissed him. She smelt like sandalwood and vanilla, already in character. K moped for fifteen minutes, shot out a couple of tires on Mulholland with an old Remington PSS and took a job in New York. Marriage, he'd known from the start, was predicated entirely on the participants' ability to have fun away from each other.

The job was a disaster, through no fault of his. Issues tended to arise when large shady organisations owed other large shady organisations money.

The nadir of it came when he woke up tied to a lawn chair in a room without windows. He opened his eyes and saw pink rabbits. Closed his eyes, counted to five, opened them again and saw one pink rabbit. Decided that marked an improvement and kept them open.

"Are you okay?" the rabbit asked. K closed his eyes again and groaned. "I'd get you some water," the voice continued anxiously, "but the door won't open. I don't think the people here are very nice."

The rabbit had an attractively lilting Japanese accent. K made a concerted effort, and found that his headache was clearing. He registered rumpled brown hair, blue eyes as limpid and naive as twin alpine lakes: the sort that came printed on the sides of Swiss chocolate bars. Not a day over sixteen, he thought. Then his eyes focussed.

Overturned lawn chair. Rope discarded on the floor.

"You got loose?" he managed. The boy nodded. Spoke around a mouthful of pink velveteen ear:

"They didn't tie the knots very well."

K tested the bindings on his wrists. They were, indeed, fairly amateurish. He considered this at length, and allowed his gaze to wander upward.

The ceiling was comprised of the sort of plaster tile that lifted easily to give access to the crawl space between floors.

"Door's locked, you said?"

Another nod. K grinned the sort of grin that small river fishes knew to stay clear of.

"Well, now," he said, "we'll see what we can do about that."

Twenty-seven minutes later he was still grinning, even as sirens wailed and he gunned the helicopter engine for a frantic vertical takeoff. The kid was riding shotgun and yelling biographical details into his ear. His name! Was! Ryuuichi! And he sang! In! A band! There was more as K jammed on a headset, leaning out so far to throw off the last mooring that his hair whipped wildly in the updraft from the blades. A hiatus, a friend, a plane ride. Some sort of mix-up at the airport. How Kumagorou – Kumagorou? – liked the view from on top the Statue of Liberty. Were those machine guns on the roof pointed at them?

"What?" said K, and had to swing the tail of the helicopter around to avoid sideswiping a nearing office highrise. "Oh, _damn._ Uh, if you don't mind—"

"I'll fly it," the kid said. "You need both hands, right?"

K stared around, into eyes that weren't limpid or naive at all: eyes as blue as the sea five thousand feet below before your parachute opened. It was only for a moment, but they gave him the same little thump behind his ribcage that he'd had the first time he saw Judy in front of a camera: the one that said _special._

He had a knack for seeing it before everyone else.

It actually made him dizzy. He was laughing as he dived for the hand-held grenade launcher and let himself fall. Straps caught him, jarred breathless, and he swung upside-down as the kid brought the 'copter right round, rising in a steep banked turn. The sky widening before his eyes, so very close and blue and blue.

His aim was true, finger steady on the trigger. The _recoil_ was something else.

When he came to they'd been blown out half to sea; the Hudson was sparkling merrily below, but at least they didn't seem to be losing altitude. K hauled himself back into the cockpit, panting. The kid beamed at him.

"Where are we going now?" he asked. K giggled a bit as he settled back into his seat. Everything was on track, he decided.

"Let's see," he said, "we could start with EMI."

* * *

_— Montreal, April 2003 _


End file.
